


Livin' on a Prayer

by JHSC



Series: The Ultimate Kidfic of Ultimate Destiny [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Minor Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Reunions, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 03:05:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17737802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JHSC/pseuds/JHSC
Summary: The worst day of Paul's life starts with a knock on the door at 10:45 AM.(A Paul-POV outtake from Under Pressure, Chapter 9)





	Livin' on a Prayer

**Author's Note:**

> So, in the process of writing Ch9 of Under Pressure, I had to figure out what the heck Paul, Clint and the gang were up to while Barney was unconscious. This led to me writing about half of this outtake before the hospital scenes in the main fic could be written. Since outtakes are fun and Paul is vaguely popular with y'all, I have cleaned this up, added some feels, and am posting it for your enjoyment. Sorry about all the crying.

 

*****

**Friday, March 30, 2007**

**10:45 AM**

Paul is on his second cup of coffee and halfway through today's crossword puzzle when a knock on the door echoes through the apartment, marking the beginning of the worst day of his life.

Two generic white FBI guys in generic FBI jackets stand on either side of Charlene – Barney's boss. Paul looks at her, looks at the guys, and _knows._ Knows exactly why they're here. Knows exactly what they have to say.

“No,” he says, anyway. “Don't tell me. I don't want to hear it.”

“He made it to the hospital,” Charlene says, shaking her head at him. “As of twenty minutes ago, he was still with us.”

It takes a moment for her words to register in Paul's mind. Then, unwilling to let hope crawl back into his chest prematurely, he asks, “It's bad, though.”

“It's bad,” she says. “Go get your things. I'll explain on the way.”

He's already dressed for the day, so it's only a matter of grabbing his phone, wallet and keys off the nightstand. He pauses for a moment, the pulls the Important Papers folder from the desk drawer as well. He's not supposed to _need_ to carry their Domestic Partnership certificate around, but now would be the time when he needs it most.

He shoves the folder in a bag, throws the strap over his shoulder, and walks toward his future.

**11:15 AM**

Charlene drops him at the front doors of the hospital with an apology and a wave. Paul stands on the front steps for a moment to collect himself. Barney was shot in the chest while overseeing the removal of files from a site that was supposed to be secured. Barney might be dead. Barney might be out of surgery already. Barney might be holding out, waiting for the chance to say goodbye. Paul won't know which it is until he _walks through those doors._

“ _C'mon, babe_ ,” Barney's voice whispers in his mind. “ _Be a little brave_.”

All that build up and of course, the hospital won’t tell Paul _anything_ at first.

“Family only,” the woman at the reception desk tells him.

“ _I'm_ his family,” Paul grinds out, wishing Charlene had stayed, wishing one of the FBI guys milling around in some waiting room somewhere would stick their heads in the reception area and _fix this_.

It takes calling down the receptionist’s manager, shoving the Domestic Partnership certificate in her face and threatening to call the Attorney General before they’ll tell him what the hell is going on.

Barney’s alive. Alive, alive, alive, and already in surgery. Paul takes in the details – small caliber gunshot to the chest, shattered rib, perforated lung, possible hemorrhage – and sits down hard in the nearest chair. He takes a deep breath, then two more, then pulls himself together and takes out his phone.

He calls their friend Debbie, who promises to be there within the hour. She says she’ll let Lida and Juan know what happened, so they don’t show up for Friday Night Pizza to an empty apartment and confusion.

He calls his mother, who promises to be on the next available flight from Pittsburgh, no matter what.

A doctor comes out to update him on the surgery, and Barney’s status. His left lung collapsed as they were mid-repair, and they had to… Paul lets the details wash over him, trusting that his brain will remember them later. The doctor asks a question – asks permission – and Paul nods. “Yeah. Do it.”

The doctor leaves, and Paul is alone again. He rubs his face with his hands and looks around. The Important Documents folder is splayed out on the chair behind him, papers falling out haphazardly. He takes a moment to focus on the relatively simple task of putting everything back to order.

A small piece of paper slips out of the pile as he straightens it. He flips it over and skims it.

 _Lou Ramirez_ , it says in unfamiliar handwriting, followed by two sets of phone numbers. Paul knows Barney keeps these numbers programmed in his phone. This must be from when they first met – when Bailey was hurt and Barney flew out to Louisville on a whim and a prayer. That whole… thing.

Lou doesn't know – won't ever know, if Barney doesn't make it, doesn't pull through, unless Paul calls him. Or unless Lou gets curious and asks Clint to investigate. And Clint… Barney’s _brother_ … he won’t–

He puts the paper in his wallet, and stands up. He needs more coffee (he needs Barney, he needs his parents, he needs Debbie, he needs…. he needs Barney to be okay, fuck).

**12:30 PM**

Two coffees and another agonizing conversation with the doctors later, Paul sits and stares down at the phone in his hand, thinking about the plans he and Barney had made for this weekend. They were going to go wander around Balboa Park, visit a museum if there was an exhibit that looked interesting, then try that new restaurant up on Adams Ave.

They won’t be doing that, now. And depending on how the surgery goes, how much damage there is, how much Barney’s body can handle, they might never spend another weekend, another day, another moment together ever again.

They were going to spend the weekend enjoying the hell out of themselves, and then the following weekend, Barney was going to call Clint. Paul wonders, for a moment, what he would do if he got the call that one of his cousins had been hurt – one of the ones still not talking to him, not acknowledging his existence. Or if it were Joey, or Vinnie.

Or, shit, if it were _Neil_.

He’s wondered, some late nights, when he’s the only one awake, what it’d be like to not see his brother for eighteen years. To never hear from him, never see him, never meet his wife or his daughters. Living out here in California, it takes effort to keep in touch with him, to stay close despite the miles between them and connect over the very different lives they lead. They manage, some years better than others. But eighteen years, god…

To think of Neil being hurt, and not getting the chance to be there with him, to see him one last time, to say goodbye if that’s all there is left to do… He thinks he would regret that forever.

Paul pulls out his phone, keys in Lou's cell phone number, and hits dial.

The phone rings four times before it’s answered, a gruff, heavily-accented voice asking, “Bueno? Hello?”

Paul feels his mother’s phone-politeness training kick in hard, taking over for his uncertainty. “Hi. May I please speak to Lou Ramirez?”

“This is he,” Lou says.

“Hi,” Paul says. He pauses. He freezes.

“Hello, are you there?” Lou asks after a too-long moment.

“Yes, sorry,” Paul says. _Get your act together!_ “My name is Paul Costa, I’m–”

“Paul!” Lou interrupts, charm and friendliness taking over his voice. “Barney’s Paul, yes? What can I do for you? How is Barney?”

“Yes, it’s– things aren’t– he’s–”

“Paul? Are you alright? Is Barney alright?”

“No,” Paul says, pulling himself together. “I’m sorry to drop this on you. Barney’s been shot. It’s touch and go right now.”

“Oh, I am so sorry to hear this,” Lou says, and he sounds it. “Barney, he is such a good– Are you okay, are you hurt also?”

“No, no, I’m fine. He was, he was at work, when it happened.”

Lou breathes out hard in relief. “Okay, okay. I am glad you are okay, that is good. What do you need, you need help? What can I– oh, you are calling for Clint’s phone number.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Good, good. Here, I give it to you, and then you call him, yes?” Lou recites a string of numbers, and Paul writes them down diligently. “You keep in touch, let me know what you need, okay, Paul?”

“I will,” Paul agrees. “Thanks.”

They end the call. Paul takes a deep breath, looks at the piece of paper in front of him, and dials before he can change his mind. If Clint turns out to be the complete asshole that Paul fears he is, well, maybe yelling at some asshole on the phone and then hanging up on him will distract him from what’s going on behind the doors to the OR.

“This is Barton,” Clint answers after two full rings, his tone all business.

His voice is so similar to Barney’s, it makes Paul’s heart clench. For a moment, he can’t even speak.

“Hello?” Clint asks, when the pause stretches on too long.

“Hi,” Paul finally manages, and once the silence is broken, he’s able to get his bearings and keep talking. “I’m calling about your brother, Barney. He’s been hurt.”

There’s a clattering noise, the unmistakable sound of a phone being dropped on the floor. Unfortunately, it doesn’t give Paul any further indication of Clint’s asshole levels.

There’s muffled talking, and then another voice comes on the line, echoing a bit like they switched to speakerphone. “Clint needs a minute. My name is Phil. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“My name is Paul Costa. I’m Barney’s partner.” He takes a breath and steadies his voice, shoving all his worries and fears deep, deep down so that he can get through this conversation. “He works for the FBI, and he’s been shot.”

A gasp echoes across the line, but Phil calmly asks, “How bad is it?”

“It’s… it’s bad. He’s in surgery. It missed his heart, but now his lung collapsed while they were doing a graft, and…” Paul takes a second to focus. “I thought Clint should know. Barney would want Clint to know.”

“Okay,” Phil says. “I’m going to ask you just a couple of questions, okay, Paul?”

“Alright,” Paul replies, nearly grateful that whoever Phil is, he’s taken control of the conversation in a way Paul simply can’t manage.

“What city are you in?”

“San Diego.”

This time, the sound in the background of the call is a curse. Clint’s voice sounds wet. He still hasn’t said anything else, but his ragged breathing indicates he’s still there, still listening. The asshole theory is gaining a few more holes.

“What’s the name of the hospital?” Phil asks. Paul tells him, and then Phil says, to Paul’s surprise, “Okay. We can be there in ninety minutes. Is that something you’d be okay with?”

“What?” Paul asks, even more dumbfounded. He’d expected telling Clint the news, maybe keeping him updated with a few phone calls. He never imagined Clint would actually _come to San Diego_. That he would make an effort. That he would reach back.

“We’re in LA and we have a fast car. Well, a fast driver,” Phil explains. “We’d like to be there to support you and Barney in person. I know it’s a hard time to have an unexpected reunion–”

“Barney was going to call next weekend,” Paul interrupts. “He needed some time to talk himself into it and figure out what he wanted to say. But he wanted – he wants – that.”

“Really?” That’s Clint, again, disbelief and hope warring in his voice. “He does?”

“He always has,” Paul says. He holds back all the things he’s wanted to say, that Clint disappeared from Cleveland, that Clint could have looked Barney up any time, that Barney’s been _waiting._

“Then we’ll be there,” Phil says after a pause, like he was waiting for Clint to speak only to realise he couldn't. “ETA ninety minutes. Is there anything we can do for you until then, Paul?”

“No, I’m just. I’m in the waiting room. I’ll be here until they tell me to leave.”

“We’ll see you soon. Hang in there.” The line goes dead.

Paul leans over in the chair, folding his arms across his knees and resting his head on top of them. He loses some time. The next time he looks up, Debbie is sitting next to him, and that’s when he starts to cry.

**2:00 PM**

Paul’s sipping at the dregs of his latest coffee, sitting quietly next to Debbie, when the waiting room door opens. The man who walks through first is obviously, unmistakably Clint. He’s shorter, thinner and blonder than Barney, but he has the same posture, the same jawline, and the same Barton nose. Another white man, probably Phil, and a young red-haired white woman follow him in.

Paul stands tiredly to greet him. “Hi, Clint. Thanks for coming down.”

Clint shakes his hand with both of his, like it’s taking all his energy not to pull him into a hug. “Paul. Hi. Sorry for being useless on the phone, kinda caught me by surprise.”

“It’s fine,” Paul says tonelessly.

“This is my boyfriend Phil, and my daughter, Natasha,” Clint says, gesturing to one and then the other.

Paul shakes hands with each of them in turn, and introduces Debbie, leading to another round of handshakes. Then they’re all sitting down, like this is all completely normal, and Clint asks, “What’s the latest?”

Paul leans back in his chair and lets Debbie explain that Barney’s still in surgery, will be for a few more hours. He sits back and watches Clint: the way his brow furrows in concern. The way Phil leans to press their shoulders together in obvious support. The way Clint leans back.

**5:30 PM**

Lida and Juan arrive in a flurry of takeout tacos, Biff’s cookies, and hugging that lasts a good ten minutes. When it finally dies down, Lida and Natasha are off in a corner with their heads together looking suspicious, Phil and Debbie are doing the same a few chairs down, and Juan is brushing cookie crumbs off his hands as he turns to Clint and asks, “So, like, where have you been all this time, man? Barney never talks about you.”

“Uh,” Clint answers. He scratches the back of his head exactly the same way Barney does (Paul has to look away for a moment to catch his breath). “I mean, we kinda had a– I guess you could say we had a falling out, but it wasn’t really anyone’s fault? But it– it took me a long time to realize that so…”

He spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. “I wish it hadn’t taken so long to find each other again. I hope–”

Clint looks at Paul, then, and visibly swallows. “I hope we get the chance to, to talk about it.”

Paul finds himself hoping so, too.

“Why didn’t you just call him, though?” Juan asks. “It’s not like he’s unlisted.”

Clint shrugs helplessly. “Didn’t think of it? Didn’t want to bug him? Scared to take a risk and reach out? All of the above?”

Juan makes a disapproving noise, but Paul thinks he understands. He finally joins the conversation with a quiet, “Barney’d say the same thing. He was afraid. He thought you hated him.”

Clint winces and nods, shoulders hunching inwards. “Yeah, I – I can see how he might think that. I don’t, though. I… I don’t.”

In a small voice, Clint adds, “Does… does he?”

“Hate you?” Paul asks.

Clint nods.

“No,” Paul sighs, focusing inward for a brief moment, remembering the whole shitshow in Vegas, Barney wanting to hug Clint and Paul wanting to punch Clint in the face. The anger’s long gone, now, tempered by time and understanding and actually meeting the man face-to-face. He used to hate Clint for rejecting Barney. Knowing the whole story makes it easier, now, to be kind to him. “He’s always blamed himself for what happened. He’s spent his whole life trying to make up for it.”

“He doesn’t have to make up for it, it wasn’t his fault,” Clint insists.

“Tell him that, will you?” Paul says, leaning back in his chair with another sigh.

**6:30 PM**

“We’re moving him into the recovery ward,” the doctor says when he finally reappears. “He’ll be coming out of the anaesthesia shortly. One of you can sit with him.”

The doctor’s looking at Clint, of course. Now that Clint is here, in his capacity as a blood relative, the doctors have all been directing their updates and questions to him. And every time, Clint has deferred to Paul on everything.

He does the same, now, insisting, “Paul goes.”

Paul’s going to have to thank him for that, later. For now, he follows a nurse deeper into the hospital building, until she pulls back a curtain and–

There he is.

He looks like shit, but there he is.

Paul sits down at Barney’s bedside, takes the hand that doesn’t have an IV in it, and presses his lips to the back of it.

“Hey, babe.”

**7:00 PM**

“Where…?”

Paul shoots out of his chair to lean over Barney, who’s blinking groggily in the dim light. “Hey, hey, you’re okay, it’s okay.”

“Paul?” Barney asks, voice thready and weak but _there_ , _alive_ , _awake_.

“I’m here,” Paul says. “I’m here.”

Barney smiles at him, hazy. “Love you.”

Then he closes his eyes, and falls back asleep before Paul can say, _forty-four_.

**9:00 PM**

It goes like that for the next few hours, Barney waking for the briefest of moments, just long enough to see Paul and drive the _I love you_ count higher and higher with every breath. It’s still the worst day of Paul’s life, but with every shallow breath, every stoned confession, every fleeting moment of eye contact, the ache in his heart eases.

Barney is going to make it. Paul’s not losing him yet.

Not yet.

Eventually, he’s secure enough to let Clint take a few moments at Barney’s bedside, to go to the bathroom and wash his face and have a drink of water.

He comes back to the doorway of Barney’s room just as Clint is walking out. Clint’s wiping at his streaming eyes, face twisted in grief, and Paul’s heart jumps to his throat – he was gone for ten minutes, Barney was doing better, he couldn’t possibly have–

Clint looks up at him. Must read his fears in his face. Says, “He’s okay, he’s okay, he just–”

Clint’s breath hitches as Paul reaches his side. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve. Repeats, “He’s okay, I just– he said–”

Paul puts his hand on Clint’s shoulder. “What did he say?”

“He said…” Clint shakes his head and sniffs, that same self-deprecating gesture he’s seen Barney do a thousand times. “He said hi.”

Paul has spent more than a decade loving Barney, worrying about him, worrying for him, leaning on him and facing the world with him and sharing his life with him. Watching the piece of Barney’s heart where _family_ is supposed to reside be filled, if not completely, by the Costas and the Doyles and the Ramirezes and their friends in Hillcrest. All the time wondering and waiting, fearing and hoping, that Clint might come back into his life.

And here he is.

And Barney’s in the hospital, barely awake enough to see him.

And then the day seems to finally catch up with them both, the terror and shock and anger and dread, and a few years ago Paul wanted to punch Clint, and this morning they just about managed to shake hands, and now Paul pulls him in by the shoulder, and Clint steps forward, and they hug in the hallway because it turns out they both love Barney and Barney is hurt _and that hurts_ , and they might be the only people in the world right now who understands just how much.

**11:59 PM**

The nurses kick Paul and Clint out of the room until morning.

They camp out in the waiting room, and start to talk.

  
*

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Kathar, Faeleverte and Laura Kaye for some A++ on-the-fly betaing, I love you all.


End file.
